As this is the first Sunday of Advent, I will be posting the short first part of what will (hopefully 🙂 ) be a five-part poem, each part themed according to the Czech (Bohemian) folk names for the four Sundays of Advent, Iron Sunday, Bronze Sunday, Silver Sunday and Gold Sunday, followed up by one on Christmas Day itself, which this year also falls on a Sunday (in the American/British tradition anyway, over here the evening of the 24th is the time for the Christmas feast and exchanging of presents. Since, being a British and Czech family, we celebrate both, I think I can get away with making the most of this conjunction of dates)

Iron Sunday

Nations crushed by iron wheels,
With gladii and oblong shields,
As far as human eyes can see
Reigns Caesar unopposed, supreme.

He sees himself as a great god
To rule all with an iron rod.
“My empire has been built to last
My might will never be surpassed.”

Declared by wonders in the sky,
Wise men saw a king was nigh.
Trusting in their ancient art,
They got ready to depart
Across the vast and burning sand
To a distant promised land.

A mighty convoy was prepared
To ensure they made it there,
With treasures, mounts, supplies and troops
To fend off nomad raiding groups.
Tents to shield from brutal heat
And nightly chills that oft repeat.

After months through harsh terrain,
Despite discomfort, cold and pain,
At last they reached the royal court
To see the newborn king they sought.
The old king flatters them a while,
With subtle knives behind his smile.

“Of course we’ll worship this new king
As soon as you’ve confirmed this thing.
In Bethlehem was prophesied
The birth of our great nation’s guide.
Pay your respects, then bring back news
That we can share with all the Jews.”

With joy refreshed and strength renewed,
And packs refilled with royal food,
They journeyed on to that small town
(Soon to be of great renown),
Above them that celestial sign
Guides them in one final time.

With reverence they find their goal
Beside the slumbering lamb and foal.
Despite the stench, the holy sight
Fills their souls with peace and light.
Their treasured offerings now seem
Paltry in that glorious gleam.

They stay a while, discuss the worth,
The meaning of this wondrous birth,
All that’s heralded this thing,
A pauper’s home for this great king?
What will he be and do for all,
That has the heavens so enthralled?

Their spirits countlessly enriched,
Return to where their tents are pitched,
And as they rest, a herald warns
Of plots against this pure newborn.
To thwart this foul insidious wrath,
They packed and took a stealthy path.

“This all our fathers saw and knew,
Most honoured gospel scribe Matthew.
We know their tale is one small part
Of a greater work of art.
Now we have helped you as we ought,
Please tell us all He did and taught?”

There was once a tiny nation, at the green and pleasant crossroads between history’s great powers, constantly buffeted this way and that, kicked around, conquered and swamped again and again by this side or that throughout its history, and now firmly in the iron jaws of the greatest of them all. This power was used to dealing with and crushing all rebellion against its might. Every proud voice was silenced, every upraised head was beaten down into the dust. Everyone left standing was cowed and compliant. This was a conquered, beaten people.